Solitary cloud on horizon is a peaked meringue dissolving in the blue sky. Cars on the road thunder by. Son sits on a red bench in the garden and eats stewed rhubarb from an old blue tea cup missing its handle. His spoon scrapes the skin of china, it clicks and clangs. He climbs in the open window and says it's really cold and sprawls himself across the couch. He lies there wrapped in my old shawl. Gets up again and walks to the kitchen to place the cup in the sink and run the faucet. He is my restless cat, no longer a kitten, he is a padding prowling thirteen year old, casing the house. After these words are written down I look up to catch the cloud again, but it is gone. Dissipated into nothingness. I wonder if I saw it at all. All I can hear now is the slam of doors and the too loud music and beyond the broad tv screen of glass there is nothing out there, only a pure cloudless palette, virginal yet violet on the rim but still blue. The bluest sky.